Now she thought he was amazingly handsome. His dark hair always looked as if he'd combed it with his fingers, his features were rugged, and his eyes were hard. Everything about him was hard—evidence of his difficult upbringing. Not that she was complaining. She found him far more interesting to look at than conventionally handsome men.
Far more interesting to fantasize about.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you that a lady always keeps her date waiting?" he asked dryly.
She shot a look at him. Had he heard something about Margery from one of the staff? Or was he asking an innocent question? Hoping for the latter, she shrugged. "You're making two major assumptions—that my mother taught me anything at all, and that I'm a lady."
His dark gaze raked her head to toe, then he slowly smiled. She waited for a smug comment, but none came. Instead, he gestured toward the door. "Shall we go?"
They drove in his car to the lodge. The massive stone building was ablaze with light and music echoed around them, along with the sounds of children at play, as they entered the lobby.
Their first stop was the coat check. The woman behind the counter said, "Well, if it isn't Holly McBride, looking lovelier than any woman should. You'll be the envy of all the men at the ball, Mr. Flynt."
It took Holly a moment to place the motherly woman—the pond, a Monday walk, and a nosy intruder with a bad memory for names. "Gloria."
The woman smiled broadly as if pleased to be remembered. "Make a wish for a fine time tonight, because it's sure to come true. The music is lively, the ladies are lovely, and the gentlemen are handsome. 'Love is in the air,'" she sang off-key as she handed a ticket to Tom. "Enjoy yourselves."
"Friend of yours?" he asked as they started toward the stairs.
"Not exactly. We met a few weeks ago when she was trespassing in my woods."
"And, of course, it never occurred to you to report her to the sheriff."
"Of course not. She wasn't doing any harm. She'd just gone for a walk and wound up at my pond." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Here in Bethlehem, we try not to sic the authorities on someone unless they've actually done something wrong. It's a little quirk of ours."
He returned her gaze, then took hold of her arm. "Well, Gloria was right about one thing. You do look lovely."
Holly wasn't sure whether the sudden warmth flooding through her came from his compliment or his touch. Maybe, logic suggested, it was just because they'd reached the crowded second floor. Whatever the reason, she felt as if she were starting a slow burn from the inside out. She thought that once they started to dance—once he took her in his arms and held her so close she could smell his cologne, feel his breath against her hair, and feel his heart beat beneath her cheek—she would be lucky if she didn't burst into flames.
They found their seats at a large table in the corner. Her closest friends—the Friday lunch bunch and their husbands—were all at the same table, or would be if they ever stopped dancing at the same time. She greeted the ones who were there, refreshed Tom's memory of their names, then gestured to the floor. "Want to dance?"
She wanted to be held close, to risk going up in flames.
Innocently he agreed, following her onto the floor, taking her into his arms.
The band was from Howland, and their repertoire for the evening was heavy on romance. Lots of slow songs, lots of close dances. The ballroom's lights were bright around the perimeter, dimmer above the dance floor. It was as romantic a setting as Holly could have wished for.
"Why were you available for this dance at such a late date?" Tom asked well into the second song.
"Maybe you were the first to ask me."
"I don't think so."
She tilted back her head far enough to see him. "You're right. I'd been asked, but not by anyone I wanted to go with. I actually intended to stay home tonight and watch a movie."
"And miss out on all the admiring looks you're getting in that dress?"
She didn't glance around to see if anyone else was looking. The only admiring looks she cared about were his, and he was giving them often. His dark gaze was smoldering, and it made her feel … excited. Filled with anticipation for what was to come.
"If you had plans to stay home tonight, why did you accept my invitation?"
"You know the answer to that."
"Tell me anyway." He pulled her nearer, his hands big and firm where they held her, his could sheltering hers. She'd never been one to look to a man for protection, but she suddenly understood why some women did. There was something undeniably comforting about being in the arms of a man big enough, tough enough, strong enough to protect her—a sense of security, of safety. A promise that nothing could hurt her.
A promise she wasn't foolish enough to believe, of course, but still… It was tempting. Enticing.
She drew a breath that smelled only of him, then murmured, "Because I wanted to be with you."
His smile was lazy and smug, but his response was neither. "Good," he said quietly, as if her answer satisfied some need in him she knew nothing about. "Very good."
* * *
The dance had started at seven o'clock. By eight, the last of the guests had arrived, and the final tally in the temporary child-care center was higher than Agatha Winchester cared to count, though, of course, she did. She could have handled twice the number of children alone—a lifetime of teaching had taught her that—but that evening she had help.
Mandy Lewis, whose grandfather pastored one of Bethlehem's churches, and a half-dozen of her teenage friends had volunteered their services. They were all a year or two younger than the minimum age of eighteen required for attendance at the dance, but this way they didn't feel totally left out. In a few years, they would come to dance the night away with their young beaus, and girls like Alanna Dalton, Emilie's older niece, would do the volunteering and dreaming about their own first Sweethearts Dance.
And Agatha would be there, too. Down below with the children. Not upstairs with a sweetheart.
"That sigh sounded positively forlorn."
Agatha looked up from the baby she was rocking to find Gloria in the doorway. She knew little about the woman, but her instincts told her she could trust Gloria with her life, and Agatha Winchester's instincts were never wrong. "Oh, no, I'm not forlorn," she said hastily. "I was just thinking about the dances and how quickly time flies."
Gloria came to sit on a folding chair nearby. "Why are you stuck down here with the kids instead of upstairs having a good time?"
"I'm not stuck. I love being with the children. I was never blessed with any of my own, but I've been fortunate enough to care for others' babies. They keep me young."
"I'm sure they do, but wouldn't you rather be upstairs, where all the action is? Where a certain gray-haired gentleman is?" Gloria's smile was teasing. "I have it on good authority that Mr. Grayson is hoping for a dance or two with a certain lady, if she ever sets foot in the ballroom."
Color bloomed in Agatha's cheeks. She had thought she'd kept her interest in Bud Grayson a secret, but Holly had guessed, and now so had Gloria. How had a virtual stranger seen what everyone else remained blind to? It was somewhat disconcerting.
"I've danced my share of dances," she said as if it were the honest truth. "Leave it to the young folks. They're the ones who enjoy it most."
"I beg to differ, Miss Agatha. Every heart can find joy in a dance, particularly in the arms of a special someone. Love knows no age limits, and neither does romance." Gloria leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, "Go on. Have one dance."
"But I have responsibilities—"
"And they're all well in hand. You've got seven competent helpers, and I'll be right next door at the cloakroom. I can keep an eye on things until you get back."
"Well…" Agatha thought of a dozen reasons why she should refuse, and only one why she should accept—because she wanted that one dance. After more than fifty years of living with her memories, she wanted to find joy in a special someone's arms.
Foolish or not, too old for it or not, she wanted those few moments with Bud.
"If you're sure you don't mind…"
"I'm sure. Go upstairs and show those youngsters how it's done."
Agatha rose from the rocker and handed the baby into Gloria's waiting arms. When she hesitated outside the door, Gloria made a shooing motion with her free hand, sending her on her way. Halfway up the stairs, she stopped, touching a hand to her hair, wondering if any of her lipstick remained or if she'd kissed it all off greeting the children earlier. Maybe she should go to the ladies' room and make repairs, or forget it entirely. She hadn't come prepared to dance or even to celebrate at all. She'd dressed for her duties with the children, who loved her no matter how she looked.
But something—Gloria whispering, "Go on, have one dance"—pushed her to the top of the stairs, where she paused in the broad doorway to the ballroom. It was made for grand entrances, and she'd made plenty of them in her younger days, but at that moment, no one was expecting an entrance of any kind. The band was playing a Cole Porter tune, and half the guests were on the dance floor. She saw Maggie and Ross McKinney glide past, so lost in each other that the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Harry Winslow, looking dapper in his Sunday best, waltzed past with a glowing Maeve Carter in his arms. Holly and her beau, a fine-looking couple, were leaving the dance floor, and Alex and Melissa Thomas were taking it.
But there was no sign of Bud. Perhaps he'd decided against coming, after all. Perhaps Gloria had mistaken someone else for him. Or perhaps he was dancing with someone else, or in a private corner romancing someone—
"Ah, the belle of the ball has finally arrived." Bud moved around the tall palms that had blocked him from her view and stood two steps below her, gazing at her as if … well, as if he liked what he saw.
Agatha felt her cheeks grow warm again and hoped, with the profusion of pinks and reds everywhere, he wouldn't notice. Perhaps he didn't. More likely, he was too much the gentleman to comment. "I imagine every man here would argue with your bestowing such a title on me."
"They're entitled to their opinions, but mine is fact." He moved one step higher and took her hand. "May I have this dance?"
"It would be my pleasure."
"Oh, no, Agatha," he said quietly as he slid his arm around her waist. "The pleasure is all mine."
If her dance skills were somewhat rusty after years of disuse, he pretended not to notice. He was an excellent dancer himself, and he more than made up for her occasional stumble. By the end of the second dance, she had rediscovered the grace she'd once had, and had proved Gloria right. There was joy to be found in a dance with the right person.
"One more?" Bud asked as the band started up again.
"I'd love to," she said, automatically following his lead, "but I really should get back to the nursery. I don't want to impose on Gloria for too long. She volunteered to check coats, not wipe runny noses and change diapers."
"Could you use some help? I've become quite adept in the last six months at taking care of kids."
"And it's made life worth living, hasn't it?" she asked softly. "You know, there was a time a few years ago when Corinna and I filled our days baking, crocheting, and volunteering at the hospital—typical old-lady activities. Then Emilie moved in next door, practically penniless, with three children and in dire need of child care while she worked. We began taking care of little Brendan during the day, and the two girls after school, intending it to be a short-term arrangement, to help only until Emilie was back on her feet financially."
"But here you are, over two years later, still keeping the Dalton kids, as well as the baby, and helping J.D. last summer with his four." Bud gave an admiring shake of his head. "Anyone ever tell you that baby-sitting young children is too much work for people our age?"
"Yes, but they're wrong. The children keep us young. They're one of the most important—"
"And most satisfying."
"—parts of our lives." Agatha smiled, pleased that he shared her opinion, then returned to his earlier question. "I don't actually need help—I have plenty of that—but I would certainly enjoy your company, unless you'd rather stay here."
"No," he said firmly. "I wouldn't."
They stopped dancing before the song ended and started toward the steps. They hadn't gone more than a few feet, though, before Agatha became aware of tension seeping through the room. She craned her neck to see the reason and located it at the entrance. "Oh, dear," she murmured.
Margery McBride was making the grandest of entrances, moving regally if unsteadily into the room, dragging her fur behind her like a train. Her head was held high, her bearing imperious, but her dress looked as if it had suffered a roll or two in the gutter, and her makeup looked worse. She smiled at familiar faces, nodded to strangers, but spoke to no one.
When Agatha stepped in front of her, Margery had no choice but to stop her staggering journey. She lifted the bottle she carried like a scepter, tilted back her head, and took a long drink.
"Margery," Agatha said, trying to hide the disapproval that tightened her smile. "How nice to see you. I didn't know you were in town."
"My daughter didn't want you to know. She's kept me hidden at that god-awful farm since I got here. Ungrateful little wretch." She raised the bottle again, realized it was empty, then flung it away. The crash when it hit the floor was deafening and drew the attention of everyone who hadn't yet noticed her arrival.
Agatha looked anxiously toward the corner where Holly sat and saw her head slowly turn toward them. The color drained from her face, and, even from a distance, Agatha recognized the shame that crept into her shocked expression.
"Margery, it's been such a long time since we've had a chance to talk," she said, moving forward to take the woman's arm. "Let's find a quiet table and catch up on everything that's happened."
Margery jerked free of Agatha's grip with such force that Agatha stumbled backward into Bud's arms. Without sparing her even a glance, Margery staggered away. "Didn't come to talk to you, old woman. I came to see my ungrateful wretch of a daughter. I came to cel'brate with her. Where is she?"
Agatha watched as Margery wove her way to the bandstand, where she stopped and swayed drunkenly out of time with the music before suddenly spying Holly, now standing woodenly at her corner table. She marched toward her daughter, pausing only long enough to grab two glasses of champagne from a waiter. She drained one, then raised the other in salute.
"There you are, little girl, looking so pretty. And which one of them"—she indicated the men at the table with a wave—"did you do all this for? Which one's going to get lucky tonight? Course, knowing you, prob'ly every man in here's been lucky at least once. Never could keep your clothes on, could you? From the time you were fifteen … I warned you. I told you what boys thought of girls like you, and you did it anyway, just to spite me. You were always so good at that. So good…"
Nathan Bishop left his wife's side, and Mitch Walker came off the dance floor. Both men reached Margery at the same time, each claiming one arm. When Nathan removed the still-full champagne glass from her hand, she cursed, turned to Mitch to complain, then smiled flirtatiously instead. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Margery."
"I'm Mitch. And I'm taking you outside for some fresh air."
Everyone stepped back, clearing a path to the door. Somehow, in the crush, Holly escaped first. Agatha caught only a flash of auburn hair and dark green dress disappearing down the stairs. When she looked back at the table, she saw that Tom Flynn was gone, too, no doubt to catch Holly. On occasion, Mr. Flynn proved himself to be a better man than he wanted most people to think—though why any man would want people to think badly of him was a mystery to her.
"Are you all right, Agatha?" Bud asked.
She gave him an unsteady smile and patted his hand where it rested on her arm. "I'm fine, thanks to you. Poor Holly. She didn't deserve this."
"No, she didn't. And poor Margery…"
His expression was
so pensive, so lost, that Agatha wanted to wrap her arms around him and assure him everything was all right. Margery's display must have brought back painful memories of J.D.'s own battle with alcohol. It had cost him dearly—his psychiatric career in Chicago, his wife, his son. It was no less than a miracle that he had not only survived but recovered. He'd made a new career for himself here in Bethlehem, dealt with his guilt and grief over his first wife's death, fallen in love all over again with Kelsey, and gotten his son back, as well as four more children to love and treasure and a stronger, deeper relationship with his father. No less than a miracle.
"Well … shall we go downstairs and see what those grandkids of mine have been up to?" Bud asked, forcing a lighter tone into his voice.
"Yes," Agatha agreed. The children would cheer her up, would make her forget these past few minutes. The children were nothing less than miracles themselves. God love them, because she certainly did.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
By the time Tom reached the lobby, there was no sign of Holly, but her trespassing friend Gloria was standing near the bottom of the stairs, holding both their coats. "I called to her, but she didn't stop," she said worriedly. "She was heading toward the town square."
The night air was cold enough to make his breath catch. Carrying Holly's coat, he pulled on his own as he took the steps to the sidewalk two at a time, then turned toward downtown. His car was parked on the far side of the square, and the inn was in that direction, too. Maybe she'd just gone for a walk, or would be waiting for him at the car. Maybe she'd decided to walk home.
So that was Holly's mother. Even though the only time he'd seen her was in the photograph at the inn, he would have recognized her. She'd changed very little since the picture, thanks, no doubt, to the best cosmetic surgery money could buy. She was still beautiful, and she still bore some resemblance to her daughter. Mostly what she reminded him of were the drunks who'd been abundant on Flaherty Street
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